Exit Wounds (33 page)

“It’s a get out of free jail card, son. Life is for the living, and you should never look a gift horse in the mouth,” he had said.

Paul wondered how many other useful clichés the man had up his sleeve for two hundred pounds an hour, but he didn’t have the energy or the will left to argue.

Every day after the endless debriefs he was driven to a small, two bedroom house in Heath that he was renting out. He hadn’t bothered to decorate. The only furniture was the mattress he slept on and a small television that sat on the floor in front of it.

There was a twenty-four hour off license at the end of his street and every night as he walked the streets in the rain, going half mad with insomnia, it watched him. Paul glanced back but kept walking.

He rarely slept, and when he did close his eyes his head was filled with the images of the deaths of that day, played over and over. They weren’t always the same either. Sometimes there was no fence and despite being shot in the head, Richard had lived long enough for Paul to crawl to him and hold him in his arms as he died. Sometimes it wasn’t Dean, but Paul who had shot him.

The tablets prescribed to him only made the hallucinations worse. The slumber they gave him was as nightmarish as it was deep and Paul was never sure if he would wake again. On the twelfth day, Paul went into the off license.

He hated the idea of drink as a crutch, but it helped. Most nights he was unconscious before he saw the bottom of the bottle, and when he awoke he remembered nothing of his twilight hours. The sleep was rarely refreshing but it was better than trawling Cardiff’s streets at night, pacing the corners of his own mind.

Jade had finally returned Paul’s numerous calls a few days earlier. She told him that they had now released Richard’s body to her and she was arranging funeral plans for Friday. Before Paul could speak she told him firmly that she did not want him there. Her children were suffering enough already and she didn’t want them confused by the sight of a man who shared the same face as their father.

Paul had agreed to stay away but he couldn’t help feel that it was Jade who couldn’t bear to look at him, not Simon and Adam. He tried to ask about the baby but she hung up without warning.

Paul had planned on respecting Jade’s request. He had sat in front of the television on his mattress, bottle in hand, daytime television passing over him in an indifferent tide of numbness all morning.

Suddenly, without any prior thought he had sprung to his feet, marched out the door, caught the first bus into the city centre and threw a handful of notes at the first tailor he saw, asking for a black suit.

No one had noticed him thus far but Paul dared not move closer to hear the service for fear of being caught. The last thing he wanted was to spark an argument over his brother’s coffin.

The service over, Paul waited until everyone had left before approaching his brother’s grave. He stood at the bottom of the freshly upturned soil, his hands in his pockets.

The stone Jade had picked out was rectangular with curved edges. It was marble with gold lettering that read, “In Loving Memory, Richard Russell, Beloved Father and Husband.”

“And brother,” Paul whispered to himself.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Paul spun round suddenly at the sound of another voice behind him. His eyes were dry but Paul still had to resist the urge to rub them when he saw his father in front of him. It had been twelve years since the last time he had seen him. His hair was so thin now it might as well have not been there at all and the wrinkles in his face and turned to deep crevices as his skin had grown hard and coarse, but Paul still recognised him.

“What are you doing here?”

“You were told not to come,” his father said, ignoring the question.

Paul couldn’t believe his ears. The only way he would know that was if Jade had told him. “Jade asked you to come to Richard’s funeral?”

“I’m his father.”

“She actually asked you?”

Paul’s father smiled unkindly, “What’s the matter, Paul? Jealous?” He stepped closer. “I’m not the one who got him killed.”

“Got him killed?! I didn’t get him killed! I did everything I could to save him! I tried-”

“Not hard enough!” his father shouted suddenly. He breathed in deeply before he spoke again. “It’s you, isn’t it? Always has been. You always come out of smelling of roses whilst everyone else suffers. Everybody at this funeral was thinking the same thing. His friends, his family. That’s why Jade didn’t want you here. It should be you in that grave not him.”

Paul felt his fists tighten by his sides. His face began to tremble with anger. “I think you had better leave before I do something I regret.”

His father snorted, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t regret it. You don’t regret anything. You don’t care what you do. You just do it. Regardless of whose lives you destroy. You’re not a soldier. You’re just a murderer.”

Paul suddenly gripped his father by the collar, almost lifting him off the ground.

The fear in his father’s eyes was evident but regardless he shouted back, “See! You’re the violent one! Not me!”

“If I’m violent it’s because you made me this way! With all those fucking years of your drunken abuse!” Paul snarled.

“The only drunk round here, Paul, is you! Your breath stinks of it!”

Paul couldn’t argue with that. He had been drinking for over a week. Only stopping when he passed out.

With Paul distracted his father shook himself free from his grip. He stepped back and brushed himself down. “You lay a finger on me again and I’ll have you charged with assault.”

Paul’s hands dropped to his sides. “Just... leave me alone.”

“You are alone.”

Paul’s father walked away and never looked back.

Paul sat on the grass in front of Richard’s grave by himself. Eventually, one of the Crematorium staff plucked up the courage and told him they were closing and that he had to leave. He ignored the bus stop and started to walk back to his flat, despite it starting to rain. He stopped when he came to the off license. He stood for a few minutes outside before finally walking in.

The man behind the counter looked to be in his teens and Paul wondered if he were old enough to legally drink the alcohol in the store let alone sell it. Paul approached slowly and placed both palms down on the counter gently.

The teenage sales assistant looked up from his soft porn magazine. “How can I help?” he asked.

Paul stared past him at the display behind him.

You could just turn around and walk out.

When Paul didn’t answer the teenager sales assistant asked again, “Sir? Can I help you?”

Paul had spotted his poison the moment he had stepped foot inside. The bronze liquid in the glass bottle shined in the overhead lighting.

Just turn round, walk out the door and go home.

The teenager was starting to get anxious now. He was probably wondering if Paul was some lunatic about to break out in a violent fit. “Um, sir?”

Richard slowly looked up. Dean stepped forward and promptly put a bullet in his forehead.

“Sir?”

“Scotch. Fourth shelf. Second from the left.”

EnD

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aaron Fisher first studied Multimedia at college then went onto complete a Bachelor of the Arts with honours in Film and Video at the International Film School of Wales. Having always been an avid writer in his spare time, Aaron wrote many of the scripts for the short films he made during his studies, including The Thief of Tomorrow, which was nominated for Best Fiction at the Ffresh Film Festival.
.

Aaron then took a gap year out to work in the industry. It was during this time that he wrote Exit Wounds.

Since then Aaron has also obtained a Master of the Arts and is currently hard
at
work on the follow up to
his first book
, Blowback.

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